Bubbly Rust And Mist

Like the crowns of rough dark ocean waters,
I can appear to leap into air,
Dance in bubbles, flowing skirts of misty white.
As I gasp, swallowing only
The dark threads tangling inside,
Hushing me, screaming with me.
Or is it I alone who is ripping my throat?
Or is it not I at all, as a shell cannot speak?

When bloody sunrise reeks more of dry monochrome
Than a cackling silhouette of the night,
Jagged edges of its liquid suppleness
Mock each beat of rusting life.
Shattered rooms inside a cage of ivory bars.
A shadow bangs on the door, frantic, rhythmic.
Do we knock because we hesitate
To wonder if we are ready, if we truly want,
To step inside?
Do we knock because we are too eager
To know that we are ready, of what we truly want?

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